Viper's Kiss

by Lisa Smedman

  “Good morning, Rillis,” he called to him. “Don’t they ever let you sleep?”

  Rillis grinned through chattering teeth. “Soon, I hope. The watch change—”

  The sergeant jabbed him with an elbow. “Quiet, soldier,” he snapped. Then, to Arvin, “I suppose you expect to see the ambassador now?”

  Arvin nodded and pulled out his letter of introduction.

  The sergeant took it. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  After a few moments, he returned and opened the gate. “This way,” he instructed.

  As Arvin stepped through the gate, he heard rapid footsteps behind him.

  “Vin! I am so sorry!”

  Startled, Arvin turned and saw Karrell hurrying toward him. She slipped her hand under Arvin’s arm, grasping him firmly by the elbow. “Please do not be angry with me, Vin,” she said, tugging him toward the front door of the residence. “I did not mean to sleep so late. When I saw that you had left without me, I hurried here as quickly as I could.” She tugged Arvin toward the residence.

  The sergeant quickly blocked their way. Rillis was slower to react; he’d been gaping at Karrell. Belatedly, he stepped forward and held up a hand.

  Karrell beamed a smile at him. “Was Ambassador Extaminos kept waiting?” She loosened her cloak, as if to cool down from her run. Rillis’s eyes lingered on her breasts, which rose and fell as she panted. “No, lady. He has only just been summoned.”

  Arvin glared at Karrell.

  She gave him a coy smile. “Come, Vin. Be thankful it’s me who is accompanying you, and not that blue-tongued she-demon. She’d only embarrass you in front of the ambassador.”

  Arvin tensed at the thinly veiled reference to Zelia. He wished he’d had the cleric lock Karrell up last night, when he had the chance. What now? If he protested, she would alert Zelia to his presence in Ormpetarr.

  “It’s all right,” he told the sergeant. “She’s with me.” He pinched Karrell’s arm, however, as they walked toward the door. “An introduction,” he gritted under his breath. “No more. Then you go.”

  She nodded.

  Rillis unlocked the front door with cold-stiffened fingers and ushered them through. He was about to close it again when the sergeant motioned him inside. “Go ahead, Rillis,” he said. “Warm up a bit.”

  Rillis grinned then followed Arvin and Karrell inside. They stepped through the door into a wide, semicircular hall whose floor tiles glowed with a soft green light. A ramp, its stonework also glowing, curved up the wall on the right to doors on the building’s second floor. The wall to the left had a fireplace in which a fire was roaring; a rolled-up carpet and several boxes lay against the wall next to it. The air in the hall was uncomfortably hot and stank of spice and snake. Arvin unfastened his cloak and wiped his face with a sleeve, blotting away the sweat that was beading on his forehead. Another member of the militia—this one with wide shoulders and watchful eyes—stood just inside the door, dressed in full armor. Arvin wondered how the fellow could stand the oppressive heat.

  As Rillis warmed his back at the fire, sighing his relief, Karrell moved toward what Arvin had at first taken to be a painting that rested on the mantle. He saw that it was a hollow pane of glass, filled with viscous red, turquoise, and indigo liquids that rose and fell in a swirl of ever-changing patterns.

  “It’s a slitherglow,” Rillis said. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen one before.”

  “It is beautiful,” Karrell answered. She held out her hands to the fire, warming them, and stared at the slitherglow as if mesmerized. Arvin shook his head. She certainly wasn’t acting like a rogue casing the residence. Her eyes should have been darting around the room, noting the exits and appraising its contents. The larger boxes, for example, probably held breakables, judging by the sawdust packing that had trickled out of the corner of one of them—ceramics, perhaps, or statuettes. And the rug was bulged slightly; something was rolled inside it. Judging by the boxes and the bare appearance of the room, the ambassador was planning a move from the residence, probably in a few days’ time. Arvin wondered where he was going.

  A door at the top of the ramp opened. The militiaman standing next to Arvin stiffened, and Rillis ushered Karrell back to Arvin’s side then stood flanking her. Neither had a weapon in hand, but Arvin didn’t want to make any sudden moves. Rillis was probably new to the militia, but the second man looked tougher, more experienced—and the House Extaminos bodyguards were rumored to coat their weapons with yuan-ti venom.

  A man in a red silk robe stepped through the door and began making his way down the ramp. He appeared human, at first glance. He had dark hair that swept back from a high forehead; a long, narrow nose; and a thin, muscular body. His walk, however, immediately gave him away as yuan-ti. Instead of stepping, as humans did, he turned each footstep into a slither, sliding his slippered feet along the stone. His body swayed as he walked, his head moving gently from side to side. As he drew closer, slit pupils and a flicker of a forked tongue confirmed his race. Despite these attributes, he was a handsome man, full of poise and self-confidence. No wonder the baron’s daughter had fallen for him.

  In one slender hand, he held Arvin’s letter of introduction. The other hand was hidden by a silk sleeve that hung past his fingertips.

  Arvin bowed. “Ambassador Extaminos.”

  Dmetrio stared at him. “Vin of Hlondeth,” he hissed, his voice as devoid of emotion as dry leaves. “Agent of the Mariner Mercantile House.”

  Dmetrio shifted his gaze to Karrell, who also bowed. He stepped closer to her as she rose, his tongue flickering in and out of his mouth as he drank in her scent. “And who is this?”

  Arvin rose. “An … acquaintance of mine,” he said slowly. Threat or no threat, he wasn’t going to call Karrell more than that. “We met on the journey here, and she insisted on meeting you. Her name is Karrell. She—”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Arvin saw that Karrell’s hand had curled in what was, by now, a familiar gesture to him. She was whispering her charm spell. Arvin thought about grabbing her hand and putting a halt to the spell, but she finished it before he could react.

  “I’d like to show you something,” Karrell said to Dmetrio, reaching under her cloak.

  “Guards!” Dmetrio hissed.

  The militiaman behind Karrell reacted with the speed of a striking snake. He grabbed Karrell’s arms, yanking her elbows behind her back.

  Karrell yelped. She dropped a piece of parchment she’d been holding; it fluttered to the floor. It landed faceup, revealing a rendering, done in ink and charcoal, of the cathedral in Hlondeth.

  Arvin stared at it. The drawing was good—really good. Maybe Karrell was an artist, after all.

  That, or she’d stolen the picture.

  Belatedly, Rillis reacted, yanking out his sword and stepping back to give himself room to swing it, if need be. He glanced between Arvin—who carefully stood with his hands open and away from his sides—and Karrell.

  Karrell tossed her head. “I simply wanted to show you a drawing,” she said. Her face was flushed—she was obviously angry that Dmetrio had not succumbed to her spell. She had to nod at the picture on the floor, since the militiaman held her arms. “A sample of my work. I also do portraits. I have drawn a number of members of noble yuan-ti houses.”

  Dmetrio stared at her, unblinking. “Name one.”

  “Mezral Ch’thon, ssthaar of the Se’sehen.”

  Dmetrio’s eyebrows rose. “You are from Tashalar?”

  Karrell nodded.

  “Are you Se’sehen?” Dmetrio asked. He added something in a language filled with soft hisses.

  “N’hacsis—no,” Karrell said, shaking her head. “I speak only a little Draconic. The language is difficult for me. It requires a serpent’s tongue.”

  “You are human?” Dmetrio asked, giving the word a derisive sneer. He flicked his fingers, and the militiaman holding Karrell released her. Rillis reacted a moment later, sheathing his sword.


  Karrell gave a slight bow in Dmetrio’s direction then gathered up the parchment. “It is true that I invited myself here today, but I could think of no other way to meet with you. I had hoped to do your portrait.”

  “And gain a healthy commission from House Extaminos, no doubt.” Dmetrio gave a hiss of laughter. “Your trip to Ormpetarr was a waste of time. I’m leaving—and have no time for portraits.”

  Arvin raised his eyebrows. Dmetrio was leaving Ormpetarr? That was interesting. “Ambassador Extaminos,” he said, wresting the conversation away from Karrell, “my letter of introduction included a request that you—”

  Dmetrio’s upper lip twitched, revealing just the points of his fangs, a subtle sign of irritation. “I have no time for meetings, either,” he said. He thrust the letter of introduction in Arvin’s direction.

  Arvin caught it just before it fell. “But I was told you would introduce me to the baron,” he protested. “My merchant house is counting on me to—”

  “Introduce yourself,” Dmetrio said curtly.

  Karrell stepped forward. “Your Excellency, I—”

  “Show them out,” Dmetrio hissed.

  As they were hustled back to the street, Arvin fumed. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to have gone. If Karrell hadn’t butted in, he would have been talking to Dmetrio still, subtly nudging the conversation around to Glisena as he talked about his “trade mission” to Sespech. Now, in order to question Dmetrio, Arvin would have to be blunt. He’d have to reveal his real reason for coming to Ormpetarr. If Dmetrio was involved in Glisena’s disappearance, he would be on his guard. Charming him would be that much more difficult—maybe even impossible.

  As the wrought-iron gate clanked shut behind them, Karrell turned to Arvin. “It seems you are a merchant’s agent, after all, and I have ruined your chances to—”

  “Not another word,” Arvin said, a quiver in his voice. He pointed down the street. “Go.”

  Karrell opened her mouth to say something more then thought better of it. She turned and walked up the street.

  Arvin closed his eyes and sighed. Karrell had really gotten under his skin. He wished he’d never started that conversation with her in the sleigh in the first place. He’d been stupid—and had shown a pitiful lack of self-control.

  When he opened his eyes, she was gone. He stared at her footprints, which were starting to fill with falling snow.

  “All for the best.”

  Arvin turned. It had been Rillis who had spoken—he was still standing just on the other side of the wrought-iron gate. The sergeant was at the far corner of the building, making his rounds.

  “You’re better off not having the ambassador introduce you,” Rillis added in a confiding tone.

  Arvin turned. “What do you mean?”

  Rillis rubbed a thumb and forefinger together. The gesture was the one word in silent speech that was understood even by those not in the Guild: coin.

  Arvin nodded and pulled his pouch out of his boot. He counted two silver pieces into the militiaman’s outstretched hand.

  Rillis quickly pocketed them. “The ambassador and the baron had a falling out,” he told Arvin. “It’s been more than a month since Ambassador Extaminos visited the palace. I don’t think they’ve even sent a message to one another, in all that time.”

  “Why is that?” Arvin asked. Carefully, he probed for information, under the pretense of sarcasm. “Did the baron’s daughter pay him a visit and forget to go home one night?”

  Rillis laughed. “You obviously haven’t met her chaperones. She never sets foot outside the palace without them. Baron’s orders.” He winked. “He didn’t want any little ones slithering out from under the woodpile. Not without a formal joining of the houses.”

  Arvin nodded. “Is a joining likely?”

  “Not now that the ambassador’s being withdrawn from Sespech.” He paused to draw his cloak tighter across his chest.

  “When is he leaving?”

  Rillis stared pointedly at Arvin’s pouch. Taking the hint, Arvin handed him another silver piece.

  “As soon as the new ambassador arrives,” Rillis continued. “Meanwhile, the house slaves can’t seem to pack fast enough for Ambassador Extaminos. He’s been hissing at them for nearly a tenday.”

  Arvin nodded. Interesting, that was roughly the amount of time that had elapsed since Glisena’s disappearance. He glanced up at the windows of the ambassador’s residence, saw slaves bustling about in each room, and wondered why Dmetrio was in such a hurry to leave. Was the baron’s daughter hiding somewhere nearby, waiting to depart with him?

  Arvin sighed and stared down the street, in the direction Karrell had gone. After what Rillis had just told him, Arvin realized that he probably wouldn’t have gotten anything out of Dmetrio, anyway. The ambassador had shrugged off Karrell’s charm like a duck shedding water. Arvin’s attempt to charm Dmetrio probably would have been equally futile.

  “Thanks for the information,” Arvin told Rillis.

  The militiaman patted his pocket. “My pleasure.”

  Bidding Rillis good day, Arvin set out for the palace.

  CHAPTER 6

  Baron Thuragar Foesmasher sat at one end of the council chamber, his broad hands resting on the arms of the heavy wooden chair. The man exuded both power and confidence. He was large, with dark eyes, hair cut square just above his eyebrows, and a blockish chin framed by a neatly trimmed beard. He wore a purple silk shirt; black trousers tied at the ankle, knee, and groin; and leather slippers embroidered in gold thread with the Foesmasher crest: a clenched fist. A heavy gold ring adorned the forefinger of his right hand; a silver brooch in the shape of a beetle was pinned to his shirt front. Arvin had no doubt that both pieces of jewelry were magical.

  On a table next to the baron sat a helmet chased with gold and set with a single purple plume. Foesmasher had entered the room wearing it, but had taken the helm off after Arvin submitted to a magical scan by the baron’s chief advisor, a cleric named Marasa. She stood to the left of the baron’s chair. She wore a knee-length blue tunic over trousers and fur boots with gold felt tassels. Her hair was steel-gray and hung in two shoulder-length braids, each capped with a silver bead shaped like a gauntlet. On each wrist was a thick bracelet of polished silver bearing the blue eye of Helm. A mace hung from her belt.

  The baron had dismissed Marasa from the chamber earlier, when he’d sent the servants away, but she had refused to leave. She was obviously an old friend—a supporter, rather than a vassal.

  “Both clerical magic and wizardry have failed to locate my daughter,” the baron told Arvin. “But Lady Dediana has informed me that you can work a different kind of spell—one that requires neither spellbook nor holy symbol. She said it might circumvent whatever is preventing Glisena from being found.”

  Before Arvin could respond, Marasa interrupted. “I doubt a sorcerer can part a veil that Helm himself has failed to rend.” She stared at Arvin, a challenge in her eyes. It was clear from the derisive way she’d used the term that she disapproved of sorcery.

  Arvin met her eyes. “I’m not a sorcerer,” he told her. “I’m a psion.”

  “What’s the difference?” she asked.

  “A sorcerer casts spells that draw upon magic that is woven into the world. A psion uses mind magic. We tap the energies of the mind itself. If the magic of the Weave were to unravel tomorrow, sorcerers and wizards would lose their spells, but psions would continue to manifest their powers.”

  Marasa nodded politely but appeared unconvinced.

  “What spell will you cast?” the baron asked.

  Arvin was acutely aware of the broken dorje in his pack. Without it, he had to rely on his wits—and the one psionic power that just might be of use—in order to find the baron’s daughter. “We call them ‘powers,’ not ‘spells,’ Lord Foesmasher. There are many I could choose from,” he continued, waving his hand breezily in the air, “but I’ll need to know more about the circumstances of your daughter’s dis
appearance in order to determine the best one to use. When was the last time you saw Glisena?”

  The baron sighed heavily. He stared the length of the room, past the tapestries that commemorated his many skirmishes with Chondath, past the trophy shields and weapons that hung on the walls. His eye settled on a half dozen miniature ships that sat on a table near the far wall, models of the galleys Hlondeth was helping him build. For several moments, the only sound was the crackling of the fire in the hearth behind him.

  “A tenday ago,” he said at last. “We dined together, spent the evening listening to a harpist, and Glisena took her leave and retired to bed. The next morning, her chamber was empty. High Watcher Davinu was called in to recite a prayer that should have discerned her location but was unable to. It’s as if Glisena was spirited away to another plane of existence.” His voice crackled. “Either that, or she’s….”

  Marasa touched his arm. “Glisena is still alive,” she said. “Davinu’s communion told us that much, at least.” She turned to Arvin. “But she seems to be shielded by powerful magic, which leads me to believe she didn’t leave willingly. She was kidnapped, most likely, by agents from Chondath. They—”

  “There have been no demands,” Foesmasher interrupted, “from Wianar, or anyone else. My daughter left here of her own accord.” He stared broodingly at the wall.

  The cleric gave an exasperated sigh. It was clear she had ventured this theory to the baron before—with the same result.

  “Lady Marasa, I believe Baron Foesmasher is right,” Arvin said, breaking the silence. “Lord Wianar does not have Glisena.”

  “How do you know this?” Marasa asked.

  The baron, too, turned to stare at Arvin.